


Chess

by hellkitty



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teeny drabblet about their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chess

They played chess, because Charles enjoyed it. They played chess because it was a gentleman’s game, and both, at least, purported to be gentlemen—if not, Erik thought, wryly, gentle men. They played chess because it was a way for them to match their wits, both men who sought to define themselves by intellect, though Charles was more cerebral, Erik more cunning. They played chess because it was history, a way of connecting themselves to the wise ancients, even though they were young and anything but wise.They played chess because it was a way to express who they were: Charles guarding his pawns, slim fingertip resting on the piece’s head while he considered each move, each possible sacrifice and gain; Erik using his pawns to distract, in bold, risky maneuvers, that seemed about flash and show while his other pieces set up attacks unnoticed. They played chess as they were: Charles’s brow furrowing, slow and deliberate, bent over the inlaid board—nothing was too elegant for Charles, who had grown up with wealth and luxury, wearing it all as easily as a coat; Erik watching the board, slouched back against the leather sofa, eyes lidded as though half-drowsy, but missing nothing. They played chess under the warm golden light of the library desk lamps, as though this were the proper setting for the game.   
  
And perhaps it was, surrounded by the subtle fragrance of old paper and saddlesoaped leather, two men, putting their histories aside, their ideals aside, like the coats that hung in the foyer, Erik’s jeweled with snowflakes melting into gems of water. Perhaps this was how it all should be played, but every match, Erik could see in the shadows, a different setting, an ugly board, pieces carved from the bones of dead Jews, his opponent a flat-faced, exacting taskmaster, whose SS insignia caught the light as he turned for his glass, for another gratuitous drink of cognac, while Erik, a child, in a grimy, oversized sweater, could only hope for water.   
  
Erik hoped, in that soft part of him that he’d armored over as best he could but that remained, resolutely tender and aching, that one day, those ghosts would be banished, and he could play Charles, and Charles alone, and not be surrounded by the despair of the dead.


End file.
